I hope I'm not a stain.

Bags and boxes of garbage
piled and stacked to the point of tipping
the attic is clean
almost
there's still dust in the corner
and those stains on the two-by-fours
will never be gone.

Those stains that still sing
and walk and talk about everything
you have ever been and
everything that has ever been you.

Those stains that cling to your attic's supports.
Those stains that form the shapes of ghosts.
Those stains that you can't see when the light from outside
is too bright.